


Gold, Steel, Light, and Diamonds

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Dangerous Liaisons (1988)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-12-22
Updated: 2004-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-25 08:06:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1640528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Marquise becomes fascinated with the object of Valmont's affections, and deception takes a new turn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gold, Steel, Light, and Diamonds

**Author's Note:**

> Written for SJ Kasabi

 

 

 _With her pearly, undulating dresses,_  
Even when she's walking, she seems to be dancing  
Like those long snakes which the holy fakirs  
Set swaying in cadence on the end of their staffs.

 

Like the dull sand and the blue of deserts,  
Both of them unfeeling toward human suffering,  
Like the long web of the ocean's billows,  
She unfurls herself with unconcern.

 

Her glossy eyes are made of charming minerals  
And in that nature, symbolic and strange,  
Where pure angel is united with ancient sphinx,

 

Where everything is gold, steel, light and diamonds,  
There glitters forever, like a useless star,  
The frigid majesty of the sterile woman.

 

\-- Baudelaire

There is a particular quality to Madame de Tourvel's skin that the Marquise finds subtly irritating. It glows in a way that cannot be accounted for by crushed pearls, ground into face powder, or the thick succor of white lead. The day is unseasonably warm, but the Marquise continues to sip her _noir chinois_ tea from her perch on the love seat and smile benignly, ignoring the creeping drip of sweat trickling down her spine. When she raises the teacup, light leaches through the paper-thin porcelain. The tiny roses painted there-- painstaking work of a bent-backed man, laboring with brushes small as hatchling's feathers-- seem gaudy compared to the roses blooming high across Madame de Tourvel's cheeks. The Marquise notes this with perfectly concealed distaste, and sets the tea aside.

On the couch opposite, Madame de Rosemonde is fluttering a painted fan and chittering away about the deplorable state of affairs in the village. The Marquise could not, of course, possibly care less whether or not scurvy ruffians starve, but occasionally she creases her brow and offers a sympathetic word. Since dashing out to Madame de Rosemonde's chateau at her cousin's behest, the Marquise has been tempted to invent a crisis which would call her back to Paris. Indeed, she'd gone so far as to debate the merits of a twisted ankle (not permanent, but enough to warrant bed rest).

Then, two nights ago, she saw it. A moment, no more, in the salon. Madame de Volanges and Cecile had retired for the evening. The Marquise delayed going up for perhaps a quarter hour. She wondered whether Valmont would come to the salon at all that evening; the thought that perhaps he was waiting for her to leave amused the Marquise. So she waited, feigning drowsy idleness, and under half-lidded eyes watched Madame de Tourvel. Her long fingers worked a spread of lace bobbins, the fine white webbing spinning out nearly invisible in the candlelight, spread like a butterfly's snare between the forest of pins that dotted the pillow on her lap. If Madame de Tourvel took note of her observer, she gave no sign, her attention bent on her work.

The dreariness of the exercise was beginning to wear on the Marquise when the door opened and Valmont stepped in. Her eyes snapped open to catch his gaze-- _I have been watching your kitten for you, Vicompte_ \--and she was answered by the old, familiar glitter. _A fine evening for a game, is it not?_

Until his eyes slid to Madame de Tourvel, who was no longer looking at her bobbins. The sheer adoration on her face was easy enough to see-- _a child,_ the Marquise thought, _could hide it better_. This was to be expected. Valmont was, after all, very good indeed at his profession.

But the adoration caught in Valmont's eyes and swelled, and the Marquise saw, with horror, that it reflected _back_. Valmont was looking at Madame de Tourvel as men fancy they look at angels, and the Marquise knew that it was real. The knowledge pricks at her now, threatens to dig in deeper between her ribs like a whalebone sprung spear-sharp from her corset.

She returns to the present as Madame de Rosemonde's words drone on, heavy in the air like indolent honeybees. _Perhaps a quick slip down the front stairs_ , the Marquise thinks, _close enough to the landing to catch the banister_ \--then Madame de Rosemonde says something with considerably more interest.

"I do believe I will attend the Duchesse de Fourchon's masked ball Saturday. It seems like a nice diversion."

"She only just decided to have it, didn't she?" Madame de Tourvel says, and her eyes sparkle with excitement. The Marquise would have thought her too insipid to delight in a masked ball, but it seems Madame de Tourvel is full of surprises.

As, of course, is the Marquise.

"How delightful. I heard that she has the Italian, Boccherini, staying at her chateau. Perhaps he will play?" The slight tightening of Madame de Rosemonde's lips is most gratifying; everyone knows that Boccherini is having an affair with the Duke de Fourchon. "His bowing skills are said to be without parallel."

The fan flutters again. "I wouldn't count on it, my dear. This isn't Paris, after all. You might find our entertainments rather provincial for your tastes." For a brief moment Madame de Tourvel meets the Marquise's gaze before she drops her eyes demurely to her lap.

"Oh, no, I wouldn't dream of missing it," the Marquise says with a brilliant smile. "I find the country so very refreshing."

As she says it, she is entirely sincere.

Later that evening, following an overly rich dinner (sweetbreads en papillote) from which Valmont was conspicuously absent, the Marquise meets him in passing--she leaving the salon, he making for it.

"Good evening, Vicompte. I thought we were to be deprived of your company this evening. Hunting, was it?"

Valmont smiles luxuriously, and the Marquise remembers other occasions that have graced her with that velvet curve of lips. She quickly represses the thoughts before her face can flush.

"Why, yes. The hunting around Madame de Robillac's estate is very good indeed."

"I should be careful if I were you. It's heavily hunted forest. One never knows when a stray shot might do one in."

He steps closer, close enough that the Marquise can smell the traces of lavender-citron cologne that Valmont is wearing. In the dim hallway, his hair is even darker than usual, tied back with chocolate grosgrain. The Marquise has always preferred Valmont without a wig. She wonders idly if Madame de Tourvel feels the same.

"I'm always careful," Valmont says. "It's the mark of a superior hunter, after all." He trails a finger just across the top of the Marquise's dcolletage, sending a small shiver along her spine. "I hear there's to be a ball. Am I to understand you'll be in attendance?"

"Why not? All those bloated fools putting on masks as if it were something new. How could I possibly resist?"

Valmont smiles again. "Ah, yes, well. I shall also be in attendance. I'm going to ask Madame de Tourvel tonight to accompany me to the ball. Just think of it--together, in public. And no one will know."

The memory of Madame de Tourvel's thrill at the mention of the ball flashes through the Marquise's mind, but she pushes it aside. "She'll never agree to it, Vicompte."

"Oh, but I think she will," he says, and then his eyes cloud over and the Marquise knows he's not with her any longer, but already further down the hall, in a dusky room with a bright, stupid creature. "You must excuse me, my dear. I mustn't keep her waiting."

"Heaven forfend," the Marquise intones dryly, but Valmont is already past her, and she does not know if he hears.

She begins to make her way back to her room. Halfway up the stairs she places her hand on the marble newel post and feels soft warmth instead of the anticipated chill of stone. Someone has left a pair of gloves discarded there, delicate white kid, and the Marquise stands there for a moment, fingering them. An idea is germinating like a pestilent seed, and when the Marquise slides her hand inside the glove, it breaks the surface. Her hand inside the glove could be anyone's hand--not here the tiny scar on her forefinger where she cut herself on a broken perfume bottle at thirteen, not here the pale half-moons of her nails, buffed luminescent. The white kid is supple, but also opaque. Anyone's hand at all.

The Marquise's laughter echoes gaily as she ascends the final flight.

The next day it is a simple enough matter to discover that Madame de Tourvel will indeed be at the ball. The Marquise sits at dinner taken in the air and picks idly at her omelette, rearranging it about the plate. Of far more interest is Madame de Tourvel's animated conversation with Madame de Volanges regarding the latest _contredanse._ Valmont sits decently far from Madame de Tourvel, offering only the blandest thoughts about the scandalous new waltz from Vienna. But the Marquise knows him well enough to read the victory written clearly in his face. She will accompany him.

The Marquise excuses herself, claiming headache, and retires to her chamber. The walnut secretary is well-supplied with parchment. The Marquise takes out a sheet and fills the silver inkwell. She is pleased at her foresight in relieving Valmont of one of Madame de Tourvel's letters. She spreads it out now, studying the gently slanting copperplate, and begins to write.

_Darling--_

I cannot go to the ball. Please understand this. I have received word that my husband is returning Sunday, and I must be in Paris to greet him. But I must see you, or die. Meet me in Paris at the Hotel de Ville. I will take a light supper there, and retire to my room. It would be best if you did not arrive until nine o' clock. I will leave a message for you with the concierge.

Yours,  
M.d.T.

She appraises the final result with a critical eye. Good enough to pass muster, without question. As in everything, the Marquise excels at forgery.

She then turns her attention to the second letter, far easier. She has, after all, long since memorized the details of Valmont's script.

**********

The ballroom at the Duchesse de Fourchon's is a sublimely elegant affair. The Marquise takes note of the draperies, tied back in the very latest style. It makes sense; the Duchesse has little else to do than pretend that she is in Paris.

There is a fair crowd gathered, women in ruched silks of cerise, dove, and faded violet, their masks glittering in the light of hundreds of candles. The Marquise shifts slightly, settling in to this new role. It's luxurious to be free of the corset and the pocket hoops, but in trade the binding around her breasts is a fine new discomfort, as is the hot full-face mask. The suit, acquired last-minute from a Parisian tailor for far more than the going rate, is another matter. The golden silk is heavily embroidered with exotic birds in the same color, monochromatically glorious. Earlier, before the gloves were on, the Marquise had fingered the soft folds of the waistcoat. It's a beautiful thing, and the Marquise is a great admirer of beautiful things.

_Ma chere,_

Look for me at the ball. I will be wearing gold, and a mask like the sun. Dress, then, like a star, for that is what you are to me: an eternal compass to light my way. Without you, I am lost.

Your obedient servant,  
Valmont

It isn't a long wait. Just as Boccherini (recognizable despite his tiny black mask) reaches for his cello, waving away the delighted applause, the Marquise sees her. Madame de Tourvel is resplendent in a gown of silver _toiles peintes_ , stars and moons worked in pale blue. Her half-mask is silver feathers, radiating out in five points like a star, but leaving her full mouth free. She catches sight of the Marquise and smiles widely, and the Marquise feels a thrill of anticipation. _Will it hold?_ The Marquise moves across the ballroom floor to bow before Madame de Tourvel. She takes the delicate hand in her own gloved one and makes a show of bringing it to hard, burnished lips.

"How flattering, sir," Madame de Tourvel says, and her voice sounds very young, and very free. The Marquise straightens up, and inclines her head in response. Boccherini begins playing a cotillon, and, swept together like leaves in a stream, they dance.

The Marquise had anticipated this would be difficult--remembering the complicated steps in the opposite role--but it is harder than she'd anticipated. The task is made more arduous by the height of heel on the Marquise's gold-buckled shoes; she has counted on Madame de Tourvel not to notice. People, the Marquise has found, seldom look at one's feet.

But it _does_ hold, and on the changes the Marquise is close enough to smell the dying breath of wisteria on Madame de Tourvel's neck, the scent dizzyingly warm. The Marquise is surprised to find that she is tempted to remove her mask and bury her face in that pulsing throat, inhaling the perfume of a woman in love.

Of course, she does no such thing.

They dance out the remainder of the cotillon. When the last note dies away Madame de Tourvel takes the Marquise's hand and leads her away. Down the hall, the sounds of the party fading behind them, and into the music room where Cecile spends so many hours butchering scales. The room is nearly dark, lit only by the moonlight pouring in from the tall window, the candles long since cold.

"That was--oh, it was wonderful," Madame de Tourvel breathes. "I never thought I'd get to dance with you." A thin sheen of sweat films her neck and dcolletage, spreading the perfume in a thicker pulse, and the Marquise thinks of flowers opening. She bows again, wordless agreement with Madame, and for the first time a note of confusion enters Madame de Tourvel's voice.

"Why won't you answer me? We're alone now. Take off your mask--" and Madame de Tourvel reaches for the sun, but the Marquise catches her wrists, not gently, and presses her back against the door frame.

"Oh. _Oh,_ " Madame de Tourvel says, and she bites off the next words as the Marquise's gloved finger trails around her lips. Her lips are sweet and full, bee-stung, and the Marquise wonders if they taste of honey. Sharply on the heels of that thought is another--that Madame de Tourvel is weak. So easily deceived, so vulnerable to the slightest touch. It sends a paroxysm of contempt through the Marquise. This is far, far too easy.

The Marquise moves her finger on Madame de Tourvel's mouth to indicate silence, then spins her around so that she faces the wall. The dress is a light enough fabric, but the layers of petticoats contrive to make it heavy. Still, the Marquise quickly gets it gathered up, and the linen chemise with it, exposing snowy flesh to the air. Madame de Tourvel struggles, but it's little more than show--at the first touch of gloved finger, she gasps and stills.

The music room is silent except for the rapid susurrations of breath and the rustle of fabric. The Marquise does not linger about the business, her motions efficient and assuredly well-practiced, and it isn't long before Madame de Tourvel gives a small cry like a wounded bird and shudders against the Marquise.

Madame de Tourvel turns around, shaken. It's almost regret in the Marquise's touch as she caresses Madame's cheek, and not regret at all when she peels off the glove, revealing a delicate, feminine hand. She touches Madame's cheek again, feeling for the first time the fine sweet skin.

"Exquisite," she says, her voice muffled by the mask, and Madame de Tourvel's eyes have gone wide with horror.

"Don't touch me," Madame de Tourvel hisses, knocking the Marquise's hand away. "Who are you?"

The Marquise has already stepped back, out of range should Madame try to grab at the mask. "Only the hand that controls the glove," she says with caustic delight, and she assays one more bow, exaggerated to the point of insult, before turning on her heels and moving past Madame into the hall.

The sound of weeping is, to the Marquise's ear, the sweetest music that room has yet produced.

********

"What did you do?"

Valmont's voice is cold fury as he storms into the morning room. The Marquise looks up from her brioche with unconcern.

"Why, Vicompte, whatever are you talking about?"

"You know what I am talking about," Valmont hisses, standing over the Marquise. "Sending me on a wild goose chase to Paris, and now Madame de Tourvel is refusing to see me this morning."

"I'm sure it's nothing you can't overcome," the Marquise replies. "After all, what's one obstacle more or less in the course of true love?" She pushes the plate aside and stands, moving past Valmont to stand by the window. Outside, the weather is darkening, the sky the color of thick, cold iron. Storms on the way.

"I will ask you one more time. What. Did. You. _Do_?" The last is spat out, as if Valmont has some unformed idea in answer to his own question.

"Nothing untoward, Vicompte. Why, I have, these past few days, endeavored to be gracious to your little darling. You might even say I have treated her with kid gloves." A smile, sublime in its innocence. "You must know I was only trying to spare you a great embarrassment. You would have been caught, and that wouldn't do at all. Not while you have yet to procure your proof, and collect your reward."

The Marquise looks at Valmont, sees logic warring with an already waning wrath, and knows that she has won this round.

"Very well. But I do not wish to see her hurt. She has this most...amazing gentleness," Valmont says, and his eyes are already far off, not with the Marquise at all, and that pinches fiercely at her heart. She stands up a little straighter, giving no sign.

"If that is all, Vicompte, I'm afraid I must take my leave now. I have an appointment with Monsieur le Gris. The new hats have arrived, and I've had quite enough of the country for the moment."

Valmont moves behind the Marquise, and his breath is warm on her ear. "It isn't all, but there's time enough for that. I will collect my reward."

"Good day, Vicompte," the Marquise says without turning, and after a moment Valmont leaves, the click of his heels on the marble floors a retreating echo. When she is quite sure he is gone, the Marquise reaches into the bell of her sleeve and extracts a single glove. It is soft, so soft, and she turns it over, tracing the fingers, the precise stitching. Such a beautiful thing, and so fragile.

She leaves it on the marble console and goes to await the carriage. With any luck, Madame de Tourvel will come to the morning room shortly.

The thought carries the Marquise all the way to Paris.

End.

 

 

 


End file.
